


The Vestal will

by kiaealterego



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Ancient Rome, F/M, Fanfic Italia P0rn Fest, Prompt Fill, Ritual Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 04:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaealterego/pseuds/kiaealterego
Summary: Prompt: GREEK AND ROMAN MYTHOLOGY - Mars/Rhea Silvia - Forestal seduction.Amulio is an usurper and Rhea Silvia has no intention of being a good vestal.





	The Vestal will

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [La volontà della vestale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488925) by [kiaealterego](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaealterego/pseuds/kiaealterego). 



> Mola salsa: a mixture of coarse-ground, toasted emmer flour and salt prepared by the Vestal Virgins and used in every official sacrifice. [Wiki source](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mola_salsa)

The first time it was a shadow on the wall. It appeared and disappeared in a blink of an eye, while Silvia was adding a piece of wood to the sacred fire. It was so fast that she mistook it for the window curtain's movement.

The second time it was in the woods. As she bent down to pick up a dry branch, a rustling behind her made her straighten and turn. But the forest was quiet and it could have been the wind again. But this time there was the smell of iron and blood.

It was then that she smiled.

If she really caught the attention of the god, she just needed to do one more thing.

Silvia, daughter of Numitore, forced to become a Vestal, would have the most complete revenge against that usurper of Amulio.

For that, she kept aside a _mola salsa_ that she would offer the god and that she would eat to purify herself.

For that, even if she was just going to get the water from the sacred wood, she combed and perfumed her hair with oil that morning.

For that, in her hair, she braided the hawthorn, even if the buds were still closed.

And she wore a robe that would have been easy to pull off.

With the shawl around her shoulders and the jug balanced on her head, she walked to the sacred spring, her heart pounding in her chest at every step, as if she were running, and her stomach closed by a knot of tension.

At the spring she placed the jug on the ground. Everything was quiet and as it should be: there was the light rustle of the wind among the branches, some still bare, some with leaves’ buds, the relaxed chirping of the birds and the joyful running of water in the spring.

Silvia unwrapped the shawl around her shoulders and laid it on the ground.

Tension rose from her stomach and dryed her mouth. In her ears, the beating of her heart drowned out the sounds of the forest.

What if he would not come ...?

The rumble of thunder was the reassurance she sought.

She placed the feathers from the woodpecker she had sacrificed for him around the edge of the shawl.

She took off her sandals and, standing on the shawl, looked around. There was no trace of the god.

She would go all the way, even if he would not show up. But he would. The signs were right and she had not read them wrong.

She untied her belt and threw it over the perimeter of feathers.

With her hands shaking, she unlatched the brooch that fastened the whole garment. The fabric slipped lightly over her skin and piled at her feet.

She stroked her waist and then her hips, a slow gesture, her hands pressed against her skin to keep her fingers from shaking.

Where was the god?

Silvia took the _mola salsa_ from her bag and broke a portion of it for herself. She put it in her mouth, the absence of saliva made it hard to chew, and for the tension she did not taste the flavour of emmer or salt. It was like chewing sand.

She swallowed, the feel of the mouthful that ran down her throat and stopped in her stomach like a stone was unpleasant. All that tension would not favor the meeting with the god, nor it would make her worthy to listen to her prayer.

Hoping that a more proud posture would help her calm down, she straightened her shoulders. Finally, she placed the rest of the focaccia outside the circle of feathers, as an offering.

Everything was ready. All she could do was to wait.

A low growl on her right and Silvia turned. A wolf, twice as big as a normal one, had its lips curled and its face pointed at her.

She swallowed, even though her mouth was dry and there was nothing left to swallow. A shiver of cold ran through her spine and the pounding of her heart was now so deafening that she no longer heard anything else: neither the sound of the approaching wolf's step nor its growl.

Was it the god? He had to be the god!

Silvia stood still, poised between hope and fear as the tension in her body shifted. It was no longer something that oppressed her and made her feel helpless. It was a feeling of new life, as if suddenly she had freed herself from a weight and could breathe again.

The wolf sniffed the woodpecker's feathers and paused at the focaccia. He was not threatening in circling her. To make herself more appealing, Silvia shifted her weight on one leg and stroked her side, her fingers light, a pleasant caress that she gave herself because it seemed the right thing to do.

How would the god otherwise notice her qualities, if she stood still?

The wolf stopped in front of her and raised its nose.

"You will lose the protection of Vesta, priestess." The voice, deep and dark, came from the wolf.

Did that mean that he would listen to her prayer?

Silvia pressed her fingers to her sides to calm herself and took a deep breath. And then another.

At the third breath, she replied, in a clear and firm voice: "Vesta has been imposed on me. I am the daughter of a King. My desire is to be the mother of a King. The mother of a warrior King. " She smiled towards the wolf and lifted her chin. She was proud and she would show it to him.

"You will pay the consequences," said the god.

It did not matter. Even if it would lead her to death, she would unite with the god to give birth to his children.

Those children would make her father proud and the usurper a dead man.

But above all, she would become the mother of a warrior lineage. Every fiber of her being told ther so. If she could lie with him, her descendants would conquer the world.

«I'm ready-»

The wolf jumped on her and Silvia raised her arms instinctively. In a blink of an eye, the paws became hands, calloused and rough and warm hands, which seized her bare shoulders. She fell on the ground and there was no longer a wolf over her, but a man.

He was a mighty man, broad shoulders and wiry chest. A god with dark eyes, an abyss of craving and violence. Silvia wanted that look on her, it was dangerous, it was like fixing the tip of the sword before it sank into her chest.

And fast as a sword sinking into her chest, the god grabbed her hips, separated her legs with his knee and penetrated her, violent and sudden, as it should be.

Silvia cried out in pain and joy, the god was making her his own! She clung to his forearms, his hard muscles under her fingers, her fingernails did not scratch his skin.

An amused shimmer in his eyes, the god smiled.

She growled at him and pulled his hair to lure him to her. When she buried her teeth in his lip, a throaty, guttural cry vibrated in his chest, and then Silvia smiled.

She would be a lover worthy of the god of war.

He replied to her bite with other bites, fierce and gluttonous, but she infused all the desire for revenge and the resentment that she felt for the usurper and engaged a fight of lips and teeth and kisses that tasted of iron and fire while she grabbed his hair at the base of the nape.

She pulled back to uncover his neck and he grunted, his muscles tense with surprise and, before he could react, she bit him again, a delicate caress of teeth just below his jaw that did not reflect the feverish fury that was driving every other gesture, neither that struggle of mouth and tongue that had engaged both a little earlier. But it was the right move because he lowered his guard and when she gained the tongue of the god and sucked it, the moan he uttered was the victory of a battle.

And so it must have seemed to the god, because his thrusts in her became frantic and his gasps were a low rumble, as if that were the charge of an entire army thrown at her.

Silvia was short of breath, but she would face him up and, despite the fierce and ferocious fire devouring her in the depths of her being and threatening to overwhelm her, she went with the rhythm of the god and wrapped her legs around his hips, so that he would not retire. A moan escaped her, and then another, and from that fire, a blaze she could not resist broke out, until it consumed her completely and shook her against him.

Every muscle in his body contracted, the god stopped with her and a dark cry escaped his lips. She went to meet him with her hips and tightened her legs, while he poured his seed into her. Overwhelmed by the tension that slipped away from her body, Silvia closed her eyes and abandoned herself on the shawl, the warmth in her belly was a welcome sensation that filled her with hope.

When the god freed himself from her he was no longer a man but a wolf. He sniffed her between her legs, hot breath on her skin. He raised his head, those predatory, reassuring eyes, and bit the inside of her thigh, a delicate bite, which left no mark on her skin, but the awareness that her prayer had been accepted.

The god turned, devoured the _mola salsa_ and left with that wolf-like gait.

Still breathing hard, Silvia curled up on the shawl, the morning air chilling her sweaty skin, her heart beating hard in her chest, but a smile spreading across her lips.

She made it.

She would pay the consequences, but she made it.


End file.
